


Once upon a midnight road

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bathtub Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Default name MC, Drinking, F/M, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: There is a beautiful man waiting in a castle off an isolated road.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 92





	Once upon a midnight road

**Author's Note:**

> [Alle you're a treasure!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allechant/pseuds/allechant) Thank you for the second set of eyes. I can't say how much it helped.

The night is human. Hot and sticky, each gust of wind like a heavy breath against your face. Sweat rolls down your temple, collects in the dip of your collarbone, below your arms, the inseam of your legs. Has your clothes clinging to you, a second skin, closer than any lover.

You shouldn't have come. 

Peeling your increasingly sheer shirt from your stomach pulls air into that vacuum, the uncomfortable damp replaced by the different discomfort of humidity. You fan the fabric in short, futile gestures — the lethargy has extended past your numbing legs. You need to sit down.

You wiggle your phone from the tight pocket of your pants. The screen is slick, wet, prevents the tracking of your finger as you struggle to unlock it. No bars. So, still no change from . . . exactly an hour and a half ago, at last check. You wonder, idly, if anyone's called the police. You were supposed to be there long before the sun had started to set. 

How can the night still be _this_ hot?

There's a patch of grass off to the side that looks serviceably soft. Although at this point, anything that isn't pebbles and rocks would do. You meander in a fatigued zag towards it, ready to throw yourself to the mercy of the earth, when you realize that it lines a hidden driveway, disguised by a misleadingly placed boulder and a border of trees.

Oh, thank _god_. 

You struggle along the path — unpaved, a rustic characteristic that you decide, in your exhausted state, is charming — force your muscles to carry you, panting, towards what you hope is a fully inhabited house. Something with electric lights and running water and a working telephone. A landline, if the useless brick of your own cell phone is indicative of the service in this area.

When you emerge from the tight alley between the trees you stop. Wipe sweat from your eyes, just in case all this extra moisture has distorted your vision. 

That's a castle.

A small one, of course, but a castle nonetheless. You feel hope shrivel in your chest. It's in impeccable repair, but there are no cars in the circular stone drive, the interlocking brickwork glowing white under the moonlight. A fountain stands tall in the centre, imposing and gothic, and utterly dry. 

Some tourist trap then? You think on the path you've just walked and reconsider. Maybe a historical site. In any case, it's unlikely that there'll be anyone here this late at night. Just your luck. More misfortune, this time with the bad manners to appear as a miracle.

You wander closer anyway. Without the sun beating down, the stones are likely to be cool to the touch, and you toy very seriously with the idea of finding someplace along the wide raised platform (within shade of the walls), and lying there till morning. 

Still, no harm in trying first, you suppose.

You trudge up the three steps. Pause at the top, to catch your breath. Then make your way to the imposing double doors. A traditional knocker sits point of pride in each impressive slab of wood, a vague shape that you can't quite make out in the dark. You take the heavy brass ring in your hand and knock. 

It echoes, louder than you'd expected. Makes you suddenly very aware of the fact that this structure is not at all visible from the road, that no one else knows you're here. That you're enclosed on all sides by trees and heat and night, indistinct shapes and the suggestion of noises in the underbrush. Maybe you should leave. But . . . what else would you do? Where would you _go?_

The heavy _creak_ of the door behind you strikes you like an axe, with fatal precision. You nearly tumble off the top step as you turn, too sharp, senses primed and alert. It's open. 

The door is open.

You take a step forward. Possibly foolish, although you'd feel equally as ridiculous if it turns out that it's only a curator, staying over for the night. Besides, you desperately need a phone. 

"Hello?" Your voice wavers in the silence, comes out too quiet. You clear your throat. "Hello? Is anyone in?"

There's a low scratch, and then orange light flickers, weak, from the open space. A candle? How . . . quaint. Although you suppose you aren't fully surprised that this place isn't wired up for electricity. You sag. So. No phone, then.

"Sorry about that." A voice floats out, musical, as the glow shifts. "Just getting a light." And then the speaker rounds the door.

Every muscle in your body freezes. It isn't flight, but something just as animal, as instinctive. The face that's peering out at you is a study in algedonic beauty, every shift of the candle a new striking perspective. It makes the breath catch in your throat.

"It's awfully late to be wandering around, all on your own." The angel (because what else could they be, so absurdly flawless they almost hurt to look at) says, taking in your haggard appearance. The curl of their smile sits somewhere just south of benign, but you're too distracted to dissect it. "Come in, darling, let's get you out of this humid weather."

". . . I just need to use your phone," you manage, stumbling forwards. You're trying not to stare too blatantly, forcing your eyes instead to every facet of this historic architecture. The light is scant; all you can really see is the stonework at the door frame. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." And they _sound_ contrite, they really do. "I'm afraid we don't have one of those."

And then the door shuts behind you with finality.

The sound makes you jump, and you realize that perhaps sealing yourself into this black space with a stranger was not one of your most sound decisions. (No matter how gorgeous they are). You watch, wary, as they thrust the candle into your hands. 

"Be a dear and hold that for me, will you?"

You take it, more out of reflex than anything else. Your grip is a little too tight to compensate for the slide of sweat on your hands, and you fumble it briefly, the clumsy motions throwing portions of the entryway into exaggerated light. A candle holder on the wall, some warm shiny metal. A polished cabinet to your left adorned with delicate white lace. Scuffed mosaic tile underfoot, the geometric suggestion of a garden. 

The figure has long since darted away, bustling into the shadows and leaving you standing there, lost. It's not too late, you could still open the door and escape back out into the night, (even if this indoor space is already _significantly_ cooler than the open air). Could still turn around and take your chances on the road—

"There we are." 

You nearly drop the candle. 

"Are you a bat?" It's the first thing that comes out of your mouth, startled as you are. 

"What do you mean?" This close, orange flames reflecting, those eyes look red. 

You sputter, caught out, flushing. Waiting in the dark, in a mysterious castle off an abandoned road, has made your imagination run rampant. "You just wandered around in complete darkness. Are you navigating by sonar, or something?"

"Oh!" Laughter greets your feeble explanation. They hide their smiling mouth with one hand, a demure gesture as they wave your strange comments away. "No, of course not. I just know my way around at this point. I've been here for a while."

"On your own?" You can't imagine anyone looking like this and wanting for companions. You'd sign on to sweep the floors if it meant being in close proximity for any measure of time. Although, come to think of it, that might be exactly what they're hoping to avoid. 

You've missed the mark entirely, if the way that pale hand lands on your shoulder is any indication. A light squeeze, the most fleeting touch that brushes your entire arm aflame. "Yes, and I've been _so_ lonely. Aren't I lucky that a lovely visitor has come to keep me company, tonight?"

You know it doesn't mean anything, it couldn't possibly. But the phrasing of those words. . . . You swallow thickly. Beauty doesn't normally cause you to fall apart so thoroughly, but you've had a trying day. You just need a little rest, and then you'll be able to get yourself in order. 

"Follow me, darling. I can at least get you cleaned up."

Yes! A washroom! You only need to splash some cold water on your face (and maybe some other places) and you’ll be - if not good as new, at least better . You're about to take that instruction when you pause. Watch that slim, retreating back as it nearly floats up the stairs, draped in glowing white.

When it's clear you aren't moving, your host turns. Too far away for you to be beguiled by that artistic face. "What's wrong?"

You can't just wander farther into the dark. Not with some strange individual, hiding away in a testament to medieval architecture in the middle of nowhere. This is nearly textbook, the beginnings of a classic horror. You pause, weighing your words carefully. "I just didn't expect to find a young . . . man in a castle, in the middle of the night."

He doesn't correct you, which is something of a relief. "And especially not one as gorgeous as me, I'm sure."

It would be an audacious thing to say, from anybody else. But from him, it only feels like simple truth. He glides down the richly-carpeted stairs, light on his feet, almost dancing. Comes back within the circle of your visibility. "You're right to be cautious, of course. I must look crazy, all alone in this creepy place."

"No," you protest, automatic, although he's mostly hit the truth of it. "I mean, you know. What _are_ you doing here?"

"You mean to say you weren't pleased to find me?" His eyes are shining. He can see through you too easily, probably enjoyed your immediate reaction. You were far _too_ pleased to meet him, Raphaelite angel emerging to deliver you from your sweaty nightmare. 

"That's not what I meant." You’re embarrassingly quick to reassure, despite your suspicion.

"I'm sure it wasn't." He smiles; a quirking of his lips. "I'm working here, for the time being."

"Oh." You were probably closer with your initial guess than you'd first thought. A curator of some sort? Part of a historical society? Before you can ask he continues, one hand ghosting over the polished railing. You're trailing after him already. 

Huh. When did you start doing that?

"I enjoy the romance of it. Can't you just see it: me, as the master of the house?" He stops at the landing, turns, an elegant spin. Lands in a bow. "I'd like to say Prince, but this estate is a little small. Count, maybe?"

"That's too bad. You'd look amazing in a crown."

"Wouldn't I, though?" He pauses, grinning. "Maybe you would too, if we got you cleaned up."

Those words set some sort of primal desire soaring. What you wouldn't give for a shower. In the cool hallways your damp clothes have gone clammy, the beginning tremors of a shiver starting up your spine. The candle in your hand wavers. "I don't want to impose. . ."

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head about _that_ , darling. Like I said, I'm more than happy for the company." 

Despite that, he falls almost immediately silent. Keeps the time of your trek with soft little gasps, inhalations that don't resolve to words. You watch his receding figure; a loose shirt tucked neatly into tight, _tight_ pants. You are overly invested in tracking the swing of his hips, the _shape_ of him as he precedes you. 

You wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to force yourself back to functioning. You feel eerily alone with only your twin footfalls to keep you company. 

"Yes, sorry," he says. He sounds distracted. "I keep thinking I should give you a tour. This beautiful castle is filled with beautiful things, you know. But it just won't be the same if you can't see them."

That really is a shame. You should look this place up, when you return to a place with either an internet connection or at the very least, an area map. You'll come back during regular visiting hours. Convince him to take you through, properly.

You let your eyes wander as you go, glancing either side with dim interest. Wondering what treasures are being obscured by the dark. Something catches your eye, glinting just ahead in the wild passes of your light. You pause, lift the candle in your hands towards the wall. 

A gold frame materializes, just the corner, spilling liquid up into its rigid lines. It's a painting. You can see the strokes, the layering of oils against the canvas. Follow the deeply rendered folds of fabric, something decadent and velvet, up the carefully blocked shadows of the arm. Try to adjust the holder in your hands so you can make out a face—

"Stop!" Your host is at your side, a strong hand on your arm yanking you indelicately away. You gape at him, confused, (wasn't he halfway up the hall?) and he huffs out a breath. Blows a wavy lock of burnished gold out of his face and releases you. "Those are real oils. You can't bring an open flame so close."

"Sorry!" You flush, hope he can't see it in this warm orange light. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know." He releases you with a pat; a single staccato beat as though he can remove the earlier aggression of his touch. "Just be careful. Everything in here is _incredibly_ old." He pauses for a moment and regards you seriously. "And difficult to replace."

"I'll be more cautious," you promise. You drag the candlestick back into yourself, slightly too close, and barely avoid igniting your own hair. His lips thin, like he's holding back a laugh.

His palm was so cold to the touch. 

When he finally stops, it's in front of an unassuming wooden door. The colour is slightly faded; a pale red, almost pink. He passes in front of you, fiddles with the handle. "It's a little tricky — old houses, you know. You need a very _particular_ touch."

"Right." Why does everything he say make you flush, send warmth pooling direct to the core of your torso? You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He turns to you, offers a beatific smile, and you're sure you're going to expire on the spot. Incredibly embarrassing, but it's not entirely your fault. 

He's far too beautiful to be allowed.

The door swings open, creaking - everything in this place _creaks_ , years and rust and history. Even maintenance can only do so much, you suppose. He gestures you inside, one arm extended, bowing low at the waist like an elegant steward. Keeps his head down as you pass, the curl of his hair looking strangely long as it reaches to the ground.

The room is large. The walls extend so far outwards you couldn't guess how far away it ends. So little of it is visible, anything outside your circle swirling mystery. There's a deep wash basin behind you, cut crystal, set above a long counter. But to use it you'd have to turn your back to the darkness.

You stand, unsure, at the entryway as he glides in, lifts the candle from your hands so seamlessly you barely feel the absence. Wanders along the counters, the windowsill, lighting a messy city of wicks in amorphous wax piles as he goes. The space flares to light, orange and warm. 

It must be _decadent_ in the daylight. Even now you can see the Venetian wallpaper, the marble-tiled floors. There's a mother of pearl chair rail that runs the full length, unbroken, and a barrel vault ceiling with a decorative fresco that's ambiguous in the shifting illumination. And in the centre of it all, an almost absurdly large claw foot tub, tucked behind a carved wooden folding screen. 

"It might get a little hot in here," he says apologetically. "But really, it adds so much _ambience_."

You realize, belatedly, that he's talking about the candles. "It's fine, I don't actually need all of them." 

"But the room is so _big!_ " He looks at you, then, still standing in the doorway. There's something challenging in his gaze when he says, "You don't mind the dark?"

"No," you say, reflexive. You rise to the bait too easily. Lift your arms, about to hug yourself, and reconsider; tug awkwardly at your clinging clothing instead. "Besides, I was just going to wash up at the sink."

"Oh _sweetness!_ ” He actually gasps at you, aghast. "I'm not sending you back out like _that._ " He wrinkles his nose, insulting but appropriate, and you try to figure out where in this room might be considered downwind.

"No, no, no, you're going to take a bath. I can wash your clothes while you soak, get all that dirty grime right off." 

You would appreciate the gesture if you weren't so distracted by the horrifying image of him dipping your sweaty things into soapy water. "You don't have to do that!"

“Well it would defeat the purpose to have you jump back into those disgusting clothes right after cleaning up," he says, practical.

"No!" It comes out slightly too forceful. You take a breath, make your way into the washroom while trying to give him as wide a berth as possible. "I mean, it's way too much trouble, I couldn't possibly ask you—"

"Oh, are they delicate? Frankly darling, I’m just going to throw them in the washing machine, there isn’t much that can save them now—"

"You have a washing machine?"

He stares at you, bewildered. "Yes? Of course? You don't think I wash my laundry by _hand_ , do you?"

"But. The lights?" you ask, floundering. Gesture with one hand to the absurd stalagmites of wax littered about the room.

"There's a generator on the first floor, darling. The entire building isn't wired up, but we do keep _some_ modern amenities. I would never submit my delicate hands to," and here he shudders, and even this motion is a study in elegance, " _laundry_."

"Oh." You can feel yourself turning red. Right. Naturally. Even in this uneven light he must see it, because he leans in slightly too close to your face, his eyes narrowing, bright. 

The proximity is too much. You're going to combust. 

"The plumbing is hooked up too!" He dances around you so smoothly the tiles might be ice. Steps towards the tub and spins the faucet with a flourish; presents the running water like a magician, showing off a particularly impressive trick. He's laughing at you.

Well, he's being far too accommodating for you not to be a good sport. You clap, carried by his enthusiasm, and he grins at you delighted.

"Thank you!" He bends, sweeps one leg behind him with exaggerated flair. The bastard offspring of a bow and a curtsey. "That was my reaction, too, the first time we got it working. You really don't appreciate just how _luxurious_ it is until you have to get all your bathwater hand-pumped."

"Hmm." You don't know quite what to say to that. You've been spoiled by the convenience your entire life.

He tilts his head at you, considering. "You know, you look like you could use some bath salts," he starts, grabbing for a jar on a nearby stand."Oh, and I just got this _delightful_ Egyptian milk powder, and . . . let's see, I _know_ I have some dried rose petals somewhere . . ."

"I really don't need anything fancy," you try, to no effect. 

"Or maybe you'd prefer shredded beetle's wings . . ." he's not listening to you, speaking aloud in a half-murmured voice that still carries, clear. 

"Beetle's wings?" 

"Oh, but crushed pearls would give you such a _lovely_ shine.” He leans towards a short set of drawers, hands rummaging. “And that honey balm is _delicious_.”

"This really isn't necessary," you try again, ignoring the increasingly questionable ingredients he’s picking through. But he’s an alchemist in his element, opening stoppers, sprinkling a handful of powders and crystals and who knows what else into the tub. He pauses just long enough to pout at you, so pretty that you're inclined to concede on the spot. 

"Aw, I never get to draw a bath for anyone! Come on, I bet I can guess _exactly_ what you'll like."

"I mean, if you want . . ." You're faltering. You know you should be cleaning up, saying 'thank you for your help' and then trekking back down the road to see if you can hitchhike to the nearest rest stop and payphone. Someone's _bound_ to come along eventually.

"I insist!" he says, that earlier smile returning. "Besides, you can't be in a hurry. That road is so scarcely used I don't know if they put it on maps, anymore. You're unlikely to find anyone else around at this hour."

You'd be alarmed at his uncanny telepathy if those words didn't stick in your head. _This hour_. Oh God, what time is it? You pinch your phone from your pocket, and the screen flares to sudden, aggressive life direct in your face. You wince, blinking away the glare until you can read the time. 

You must have shown up just past midnight.

Guilt pebbles, gathering in the pit of your stomach. You address the shadowy curve of his back; still bent over the edge of the tub, fully concentrated on the task at hand. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Me?" He looks up. Smiles at you, and it flickers. "No. No, you don't have to worry about that. I was already up."

"This late?"

"Oh yes." He nods like this is obvious. Doesn't bother with elaboration. "Although having you show up on my doorstep was a godsend." Something twists at his mouth as he says it, like he's on the verge of another laugh.

You scoff. "I can't imagine that's true. It must have looked like a bog creature had dragged itself to your estate."

"I'm being sincere. I was getting tired, you know." He's . . . _looking_ at you again, something about his gaze too piercing, just a little sharp. His hand reaches out, and he finally stops the water. "You're just the thing to perk me right back up." 

"I-I'm a mess!" you sputter. It should be illegal to direct those eyes at anyone; the effect it's having on you is lethal. 

"Is that what you think?" He hums, ghosts the tips of his fingers over the delicate architecture of bubbles rising off the surface of the water. "You have no idea how _tempting_ you looked. Shining and _flushed_ and painted inside your clothes."

You shiver, you can't help it. Feel your mouth part, slightly, jaw falling just that side of slack. Warmth is spreading through you, a flash like electricity that delivers it to every centimetre of your body at once. He's looking at you like he wants to _eat you alive_.

And you kind of want to _let_ him.

"Well?" he asks, looking amused. He waves a hand at the bath. "Aren't you going to get in?"

He _did_ already fill it. Your hands go immediately to the hem of your shirt, ready to strip with no compunction but. You pause the second your eye contact breaks. That's too bold for strangers, and, no matter what spell he's cast on you you can't just . . . 

One flashing glance at his face decides for you. 

There is no way you're getting undressed in front of this monument to physical perfection. 

"Could you . . . ?"

"What is it, darling? You want more amber oil. My, you certainly have _decadent_ tastes—"

"No!" You shake your head, holding your arms out. Try to transition smoothly to a sort of 'move away' charade. It clearly doesn't work, because he only stills, eyes bright. "Could you give me a little privacy?"

"Oh! Yes, of course~" he says, purring. He breezes around you, to the other end of the room. Humming, hands clasped behind his back. You shuffle towards the little privacy afforded by the folding screen, keeping it a very firm divide.

His voice floats out at you as you fumble with the zipper of your pants. "You're lucky, you know. I'm actually leaving tomorrow. One more day and this place would have been _really_ empty."

"That _is_ lucky," You say, surprised. Your fingers fumble below the hem of your shirt, trying for enough friction to peel it off, every centimetre slick to skin. Wait . . . . Leaving? "Is someone coming to get you? How do they know—"

"All the arrangements have already been made." He sounds close. Probably right behind the screen. 

Normally you would be embarrassed to ask, but you're already stripping in his gilded bathroom, taking advantage of an absurd amount of luxury soaps. "Could you give me a ride?" A pause, as you struggle out of your underwear. "It doesn't have to be anywhere specific! I can just get out at the first town, or even a gas station, it doesn't matter—"

"Don't be silly!" The words are so clear you jump, whirling in place, prepared to find him standing just behind you. Nothing. You can still see his shadow, bouncing lightly behind the carved panels. "I’ll help you get where you need to go. It's the least I can do, after all."

"The least you could do is nothing,” you say pragmatically. You lean over the tub, trail a hand through the bath. It's not too warm; the perfect temperature. There's a brief breeze against the curve of your ass and you jump, splashing water. His shadow hasn't moved. It must be the shifting air, currents changing with all these little flames. This night has been so strange you're growing paranoid.

You crawl carefully over the edge, lifting your legs to clear the high walls of the tub. The second you slide in the water gathers you in a caress, and you sigh, closing your eyes. Oh, but this bath feels _heavenly_. 

"Are you done?" 

You peer down at the ample cover of bubbles on the surface. Safe enough, you think. "All good, thanks."

"Excellent!" There's a shifting, and you turn to see your host picking up all your clothes. You wince; even from here they look damp to the touch. "I'll just pop these into the _machine_ ," with extra emphasis, so you know he's making fun of you, "and they should be all ready for you before too long."

"Thank you." You're afraid it's too soft, but he pauses. Almost startled by the sincerity. 

"Oh, don't worry about it, love. You're more than making it up to me."

"I haven't _done_ anything," you say, puzzled. "Except intrude on you in the middle of the night."

"Oh no?" He's smiling again, that strange, inscrutable expression. "I wonder."

He's out the door before you can ask him what he means.

Time is liquid. You can't guess how long you've been soaking in the tub, eyes closed, head tilted back against the rim. You scrubbed vigorously the first few minutes but now you're nearly floating, enjoying the sensation.

One soapy hand comes up to swat at your neck. Your hair must be curling towards one spot — maybe you've tangled it? There's a ticklish sensation at the juncture of your shoulder that keeps returning, a cycle so regular you think you could measure it by your pulse.

" _So clever._ "

You shoot up. Sputter as you dive into a wall of unpopped bubbles, head whipping wildly. You can feel the frantic beating of your heart, reluctant to slow. But the room is empty. 

You shake your head. You must have actually fallen asleep. Walking for so long, all alone on that abandoned road . . . you aren't surprised. 

There's a knock on the door. You freeze, waiting, unsure if you're still half-dreaming. But no, there it is again, followed by a lilting voice. "Are you alright, sweetness?"

You clear your throat. "Fine, thank you!"

"Good!" The door opens, and your handsome angel floats in, hands full. "I was a little worried that you'd fallen asleep and drowned, when you didn't answer the first few times. I was going to come in anyway, if I didn't hear anything soon."

"Sorry." You flush. "I might have drifted off a little."

"As long as you're all right, darling, no harm done!" He beams at you. Hooks a nearby end table with one leg and drags it over, depositing the majority of his load. A platter of what looks like cheese and fruits, arranged on nearly glowing copper. Two glasses and a large unlabelled bottle that must be wine.

"What's all this?" 

He's turned, slotting the towel and a long, fluffy robe over the nearby rack. He must have carried them draped over his arms. "What does it look like?"

"Like you're spoiling me," you say, intrigued. This is an awful lot of trouble to go to for a random stranger.

He kicks over a nearby stool, settles into it with inhuman grace. "You'll indulge me, won't you? I haven't had a guest in _so long_. I was going crazy here, on my own."

"I'd imagine," you say, eyeing the grapes spilled on the platter. He follows your line of sight, grinning. 

"I thought you might be hungry. Here." And he holds it out to you, all on the vine. Dangles it over your face like he's going to _feed_ it to you. You gape at him, and he presses the rounded flesh of the lowest fruit against your open mouth. 

You pull the pearl of it in, pluck it off the stem with your teeth. The juice is vibrant on your tongue. 

"I can get it myself, you know."

"But your hands are all soapy! It wouldn't taste right." He leans towards the table, uncorking the bottle with a _pop_ that echoes. "You wouldn't waste my food like that, would you?"

He's pulling you along in his pace, too smooth for you to find your footing. For some reason, you can't think of any real argument. He pauses in his movements, the lip of the bottle arrested just above one of the glasses. "Do you drink?"

"If it's wine, I can take it."

"Oh good." Relief, a ripple on the pristine surface of his face. "I'm sorry, I should have asked first. I didn't think."

“It was kind of you to think of this at all.” 

He smiles, the barest motion, and turns back to the bottle. You cross your arms over the edge of the tub so you have someplace to rest your chin and watch as he busies himself with your drinks, pouring with a sophisticated flourish. You’re almost grateful for all the shadows, saving you by obscuring some of his perfection.

When he’d first appeared, you had placed him as young; your age, maybe with a scant few year's difference. His following behaviour hadn't altered your impression. But now, this close, the crystal cut of his jaw, the smooth and lineless marble of his face . . . Something is screaming at you, a flash of days and months and _years_ poured into an exquisite vase. 

_Everything in here is_ **_incredibly_ ** _old._

You shake your head as he pours. It's the atmosphere, the strange halcyon fantasy of an old castle, a beautiful face that has your thoughts turning fantastic. 

But.

He's almost _too_ accommodating, eager to please. And. There’s something else. Something that niggles at you from the back of your mind, a warning suppressed behind your vulnerable comfort. Something struggling to resurface, now that you aren’t being dazzled by the force of his attention. 

"Why are you here, all by yourself?" 

He puts down the napkin in his hand. You think for a moment he's offended, but he only leans backwards, sighing, dramatic. "I'm afraid the rest of the family has moved on to greater and grander things! Awfully cruel of them to leave me behind, wouldn't you say love?" 

"Your family?" 

"Oh, you know." He makes a delicate circling motion with his wrist. "My brothers-in-arms. The other members of my team."

"Oh!" Well, historical authorities always _do_ tend towards the eccentric. "So you _are_ a restoration team." 

"You could say that," he says. He sounds amused. 

You reach for the nearest glass, and it's cold to the touch. More brass, closer to a goblet. "How did you get into this line of work?"

"Oh, I was always very interested in preserving history." He plucks a strawberry delicately between two fingers, closes his lips _slowly_ over the fruit. His stare is too straightforward; you duck for a drink so you can avoid the impulse to throw yourself into his arms. This close you can see the brushed rose of his mouth and the urge to kiss him is growing unmanageable.

You miss the rim with your first clumsy pass, and a thin trickle of wine dribbles down your chin. Gathers into fat droplets that fall, hitting the water; insignificant contamination. His eyes track the movement, too much attention for such a minute accident. 

"So, what were you doing, wandering around all on your own?" he asks, still gazing at the red-tinted bubbles where your mess descended. 

"My . . . car broke down." You close your eyes, feel that furrow in your brow. For some reason, it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to recall. "I was on the way to . . ." Strange. Where were you going?

"And you didn't call anyone?"

"I. No. My phone wasn't getting service." Oh right, your phone. You left it in your pants.

He catches the alarm on your features and smiles at you. Reaches over and taps your arm, once, twice, and then stays. His palm is dry on your skin. "Don't worry, I didn't throw it in the wash. Although you really _should_ be more careful."

It sounds ironic, coming from his mouth. 

"Did you just leave your car, then, in the middle of the road?"

Did you? No. No, you wouldn't have. You shake your head, goblet tilting dangerously. "I pulled off to the shoulder, but it's still there. I don't know how far back, I was walking for so long."

"Poor thing," he murmurs. His thumb rubs small circles against your skin. He's still touching you. "You've had such a hard night."

You can't look away from his face. So sweet, so _close_ , drawing even closer with the mesmerizing quality of his voice. "It wasn't all bad," you whisper, and his eyes shoot to your face, impossibly quick. Half-shielded by the guard of thick and golden lashes. 

Waiting. You can almost _feel_ the anticipation, thick in the air between you, and your mouth dries, tongue darting out to wet your lips. He is caught by the motion, the rosebud of his mouth parting in sympathy, _want_ so clearly written in his expression . . .

You tremble, wrist going slack, and this time that dark liquid splashes over the rim, catches you just at the edge of your jaw, traces the line of your collarbone. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm wasting—"

"How do you like the wine?" he interrupts, sitting back. He removes his hand and you immediately miss the contact. Plucks the linen napkin from the table, never once breaking his gaze. 

“I.” The words catch in your throat. For a moment, he's alarmingly still, staring at you. A sculpture, a statue. Not even a breath ruffling the dangling edges of his hair. Fear flares in you, primal and arresting. 

When he leans it, it's entirely too smooth. 

"It's—" You try again only to stutter, watching, caught as he brings the fabric to your face. Passes it along your skin, exceedingly gentle. Your voice is shaky on the exhale. "It's good." 

You don't remember the taste.

"Mmm." He moves lower, follows down your neck. Wipes along that line of bone. The white of the cloth is staining; deep colour that will never wash out. "It's one of my _favourites_. Rich and _full-bodied_." 

You gasp as he reaches the top of your sternum, chest heaving, lungs filling with too much air. The motion must startle him because he loses his grip, the napkin falling into the bath.

He chases it without hesitation.

His hand breaches the surface, catches it just before it gets too far. Water is crawling up the sleeve of his shirt, turning the soft garment sheer. You watch in fascination as it grips the elegant line of his forearm. Distracted when the back of his hand brushes against the curve of your breast and you shiver, a motion that travels the full length of your body.

You are too aware of the closeness of him, your very complete nakedness, the desire pooling within you, low and _aching_.

"You're trying to seduce me," you murmur, barely able to gather enough breath for the accusation.

He hums, eyes flicking direct to yours. Wide and searching. You'd thought they might be light pink, maybe a strange brown, but it seems that first flash was correct. His irises are red, blood-dark and glittering, streaks of gold threaded through.

You can't look away. 

"Is it working?"

Oh. _Oh_. Your words fail you, even the most simple of syllables turning senseless in your throat. So you do the next best thing — fall towards him, submit to inevitability. Curl one damp hand around his head and drag him into you and _kiss_ him. 

He tastes like wine and metal.

The moan he presses into your mouth is _sin._ Satisfaction. He takes the goblet out of your hand without ever once breaking apart, and you only acknowledge the movement by grasping his neck instead, drawing him into you. You're half-out of the water, pressed naked against him, dampening his clothes. Hair and skin and fabric dripping on the floor, vast puddles forming into oceans.

His touch wanders. Permission has made him a predator, a ravenous creature that seeks out every exposed centimetre, exploring, mapping, eating up the distance of your body with the light touch of his fingers. He writes a novel along your skin, every line a promise. Dipping down, low, lower, along the curve of your spine, over the apple of your ass. He reaches just below your seat and grips, digging tight, spreading. Pulls you even further forwards, separated below the waist by the aggravating barrier of the tub's ceramic. 

You gasp into his mouth as he kneads, every motion stoking your desperation. You can feel yourself clenching, empty, _wanting_ and insatiable. " _Ple_ _ase_."

He looks down at you, catalogs every angle of your face. You can only imagine what he sees; blown pupils, a fevered flush. Mouth open and kiss-bruised and wet. "What will you give me?"

" _Everything._ " 

Something flashes in his eyes, animal, _hungry_. " _Really_ now, love?"

"Take everything I'm able to give you."

He pauses. There is the suggestion of calculation as he regards you now, intrigued. 

"Someone's careful," he says finally, a half-exasperated huff. But his fingers reach further, dig harder and you moan, press more eager against him. "Alright, then. I'm more than happy to take everything on offer."

And then he curls over you, suddenly so much bigger than that lithe figure who'd greeted you at the door. It feels like you're being swallowed, being folded into the cold embrace of the night, stars exploding into being in your atmosphere. You scrabble at his shoulders, your nails pressing crescents into skin. The pressure makes him moan against you, a short thrust against the tub so powerful the entire thing shudders on its feet. 

He latches at your neck, his hair dipping down, tickling the skin at your breast. Tongue working, sucking, laving such ardent attention you can feel yourself going light headed. One hand is wound around your waist, keeping you upright, as the other dives between your legs, fingers spreading. 

The first pass of his thumb over your clit has your vision going white.

You shiver, head thrown back. Can just decipher figures painted into the ceiling, illustrated eyes witness to your unravelling. And then there's a sharp pain at your pulse, stinging fire at the exact same moment he presses in with two fingers. 

That _delicious_ fullness—! The cries that fall out of you are ragged and wild, urgent noises that you have no hope of tamping. You thread both hands into his hair, anchor him against you as he works, pumping in and out. Stroking with each pass, a fluid motion that ends with a hook, curling up against a knot of nerves that has you nearly singing out into his crown. Everything is the white hot ecstacy of pleasure, your muscles shaking, threatening to dissolve into smoke and sparks.

You've never known anything like this. He presses to your peak, an even rhythm that has you tightening around his digits, on the verge of discovery. And stops just at that crest, rests inside you while you tremble on the knife's edge. Slides in another finger and coaxes you back up to that height.

In and out, in and out. A punishing pace, no mercy at all and it is terrorizing your every nerve. Electricity is inside you; jumping, wanton, patternless and you can't find ground. 

Oh, you were _entirely_ wrong. He isn't an angel _at all_.

You're nearly vibrating against him, the shocks of your orgasm violent as he continues suckling at your neck. You can't even imagine the size of the hickey that's going to leave but you can't find reason enough to care. With just his _fingers_. . . 

The sheer talent of this man in front of you is making your head spin. "More.”

"Oh?" He looks _delighted_ . Debauched and messy and _glowing_ with it. Dark liquid drips at his mouth, droplets that stain the flawless expanse of his shirt. (And some small part of you is wondering what it is, how his mouth could be so full of wine when it was full of _you,_ but then). "What do you want?"

Desperation has made you honest. "More. _Anything_. Just please, fill me up, make me—"

"Oh _sweetness_ ," he croons, bending you back. He takes your jaw in one hand, runs his thumb along your bottom lip. You can taste yourself, cut with the bitter sting of soap. "I’ll do it if you say my name." 

"Your . . . what?" Your thoughts are hazy, fogged with steam and touch and _need_. 

"Oh that's right, I never gave it to you, did I?" And that sparks a brief touch of panic, a flaring sense of _something wrong_ , but then his fingers curl inside your mouth _just so_ and the feeling passes, washes away in the stream of your ramping desire. "Call me Asmodeus."

"Asmodeus," you say, instant. 

"Mmm, I do so _love_ an eager partner." He removes his hand just so he can replace it with his lips, his mouth, and everything is metal and rust and strangely _hot_ and then—

You're falling. You can feel the world tilting sideways beneath you, the water splashing upwards as everything shifts, spilling out over the sides of the tub. 

It's still somehow warm. 

Asmodeus is on top of you, staring down, the brilliance of his face framed by the deep blonde of his hair. Naked, every flawless millimetre of his skin incandescent. Carved ivory, an almost uncomfortable perfection. When did he undress?

You run your hands up along his chest, feel the planes of muscle, the smooth silk of his skin. He feels _divine_. 

"Are you real?" you whisper. It feels like a frivolous, foolish question, a childish uncertainty. But pressed this close against him, without the distraction of his fingers plying you to pleasure he suddenly seems impossible. Some carved mystery, an obelisk; smooth and imposing and impenetrable. 

He rolls into you and you catch him, palms flat against his abdomen. It's a sinuous movement that feels too fluid, like he's aided by an extra length of discs in his spine. The smile that he drops on you is amusement with an edge. "Darling, what would make you ask something like that?"

You swallow, feeling caught. Suddenly aware of the way he's caged you in with his naked body, everything more dangerous without that added layer of fabric between you. You wonder if you could change your mind now, if he would swing off of you if you would just push up against his torso, make the withdrawal of your interest known. 

You don't move. Instead you slide upwards, fingers skating along the lines of his ribs. He shudders under your touch; an exaggerated breath. The evidence of his enthusiasm prominent between his legs, significant and _so_ tempting. 

You idle at the line of his hips, enjoy the sharp sculpture of bone. Rub in sweeping gestures towards the join of his thighs, growing closer and closer to his mouth-watering erection. Your gaze flicks, between that leaking tip and the dark arousal in his eyes.

"Let me taste you." It should be begging but it comes out demand. He flushes, something passing quick over his face. 

"Oh sweetness, I was _waiting_ for you to ask." 

He's too quick, too agile in such an awkward space. Barely a blink and he's already settled above you, arms posted on either side of the tub for balance. The head of his cock is barely a breath away, close enough for a flick of your tongue to take that dangling drop. "Well, darling? And here I thought you were so impat—"

He's cut off with a groan as you fasten immediately, suction and tongue. Running the muscle along his glans as you grip at the base with one hand, dipping slightly into that opening so you can enjoy the full _flavour_ of him.

"Would you look at _you,_ " he coos. "So excited— _Ah!_ "

You bob down, take him fully to the base. You can feel the length, so _hot_ hitting the back of your throat. Pull back _slowly_ , your tongue caressing the underside of his shaft as you go, suction unbroken.

"An undiscovered _talent,_ " he says, voice dropping low. A startling shade of possessive. "How am I supposed to let you go now?"

You can understand the sentiment.

You let your hands crawl around his thighs, reach towards his ass. His head is still sitting pretty in your mouth, your tongue working, but it's not enough. You take a handful in each palm and slam his hips forwards.

He takes the cue. Pants as he starts working, pelvis thrusting as he fucks rough into you. The beginning of your gag is starting to make its appearance, jaw burning, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes. 

" _Gorgeous,_ " he murmurs, almost buried by his uneven breaths.

He closes his eyes above you and his pace starts to stutter, savage. Your vision is swimming, your hands gripping hard at the flesh of his ass as he shudders, bucks into you. Keep your eyes wide open so you can watch his face, the tension spider-webbing out like cracking porcelain. 

He stops abruptly.

You swallow while he's still resting light inside your mouth, watch the way he winces, moans at the additional sensation. He makes no move to pull out, gone perfectly still.

He hasn't softened at all, hasn’t spilled. You suckle, tongue pinned flat beneath his girth, and he _shivers_ above you, a motion you can track from his legs all the way up his neck. He thrusts lightly, knocking back against your throat, and this time you choke properly.

His eyes are blazing when he finally opens them. He shifts backwards, flopping to a crouch in the water. The liquid slaps up against his skin, another volume spilled out on the floor. " _You_ —"

The taste of him is still heavy in your mouth as you crash forwards and kiss him. Sloppy, unbalanced, you cut your lip on one of his canines, blood mixing. His arms immediately come up, catch you against his chest as you fall reckless against him. His tongue darts out, swipes clean across the split. When you pull back his eyes have shadowed black.

"Can you handle any more?" he asks, at the same time your voice breaks out of you, a whine. "It's not enough!"

" _Really, now?_ " Excitement, bright and brief as a flare, shoots across his face. "Well aren't you a _wonder_."

He flips you, more water sloshing. Circles your knee with one palm, diving to rub below the well of that joint, under the firm meat of your thigh. Squeezes, all enticing guarantee as he presses upwards, spreads your leg up and out, pinned against the white ceramic. Shifts you up just above the diminished water line so you can hook your knee over the edge, keep yourself forced open.

He grabs your ass, lifting so he can settle you against his thighs. Stares down at you, wet and wretched with lust, inviting him in every way. "The sounds you were making before were _beautiful_ ," he says. He locks his fingers together, runs the pads lightly along your well-presented folds. "But feel free to scream. You won't be bothering anyone, I _promise_."

You open your mouth to retort and he slots into you, vindictive revenge. A yell rips from your throat, the _heat_ of him finally, _finally_ stretching you out. You clench around him, already pulsing just from that first insertion.

He wiggles in place, adjusting. "We can do better than _that_ , can't we love?"

And then he pulls out of you and _slams_ back in. You gasp, your back arching off the cold ceramic. Throw your hands up to his shoulders and latch tight as he presses deep. 

He'd been so cold earlier but now he's _hot_ , every centimetre approaching flame. You're suspended between sensation; his shocking warmth contrasting the cool press of the tub, the distracting ache of him inside you. Feel the sweet drag of friction eclipsing everything. This strange night, the uncomfortable position, the eyes leering down at you from more than a hundred years of paint.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He stutters, interrupts his rhythm briefly for a short, sharp laugh at the sudden expletive. “Asmodeus, Fuck, I—”

"That's right, darling, I want to _hear_ you."

He wants you to be _loud,_ and he’s giving you more than ample excuse. His free hand glides up over your stomach, ghosting below your ribs. Moves to encompass the swell of one shaking breast, large enough to hold you and thumb against the peak of your sensitive skin. Every extra point of contact is a fuse that he’s lighting, another burning length that’s bringing you closer to detonation. He’s a miracle worker, a magician, a centennial adept and he is spending all his prodigious skill on _you_.

You're babbling, nonsense, half-choked screams that are building to a frightening pitch when . . . He stops.

You were so. . . You were so _close_. You whimper, panting, eyes the glazed hurt of betrayal. "Oh don't worry, sweetness. We aren't done yet. Turn around."

You make your way up on shaky arms, trying to drag yourself vertical. Trusting and immediate. 

He hums, something carnal and approving in his voice. "There we go, darling." Your muscles threaten to give and an arm is already curling below your chest, supporting you. "Oh, it's alright. I've got you."

You reach weakly down, try to find him so you can force his cock back within your heat. He laughs, slides the back of his hand against your palm to discourage your wandering fingers. Runs lightly against the mess between your legs, all this moisture: fluid and liquid mixing. Flicks brief at the apex of your sex and you jerk, a puppet with pulled strings. Your hands land on the rim, _hard_.

“Don’t be an _ass!_ ” you hiss. You freeze for a moment, surprised, something uncertain crawling up your spine.

“Oh? And here I thought I’ve been nothing but nice to you, tonight.” The words are tinged with hurt, but he’s draped over you, close enough to feel the reverberations of amusement in his chest. You relax beneath him, buoyed by that easy mirth. Anyway, that _can’t_ be true. He’s been teasing you ever since . . . how long have you been in here? How did you _get_ here?

You can feel your mouth working, those half-formed questions already on your lips, when he leans down, brushes your hair over one shoulder, comfortably out of the way. Even the light suggestion of his touch is enough to have you trembling, your body defaulting to eager anticipation.

“Patience, sweetness. I’d never let you go unsatisfied.”

You whine, cant your hips back against him and he laughs. Lowers the arm circling your waist, forearm locking into the V of your pelvis, reaching between your legs. You buck as he draws his dick against you, light passes a promising prelude on your sensitive skin. "Asmodeus, _please_."

"Tell me what you want, love."

" _You!_ " You're begging now, desperate. "I want _you!_ "

"You want me to . . .?"

He's toying with you, plying your appetite with teasing. He wants to hear you _say_ it. 

" _Fuck_ me! Destroy me!" You're on the verge of tears, the briefest suggestion of his heat below you driving you insane. " _Take me_." 

"So _needy_ ," he hums, and it sounds like praise. 

Ecstasy spears through you, as he finally, _finally_ slides himself inside. _Yes_. You shudder, feel your body convulse as he makes that first slow drag, builds back up to that heart-pounding rhythm. Close your eyes so you can focus on the encompassing sensation. 

He presses tighter against your back, moulds himself to the curve of your spine. Heat and moisture trapped between you, too warm to be comfortable. 

There's a slickness against your neck. He's dipped towards your pulse, lavishing attention, ready to provide a twin for that first aggressive mark. His free arm crawls upwards, between the valley of your breasts, high, higher, fingers splayed and palm curling at your throat. Holding you. Supporting. 

And then there’s pain. An acute precision, the burn of some foreign wound that's swallowed up by ramping pleasure. 

Your eyes shoot open.

You can see yourself, reflected in the tall glass of the facing window. Hair wild, mouth gasping, parted. Arched, your chest bouncing, head tipped back towards the sky.

Framed like a portrait.

Your thoughts are growing indistinct, shapeless, as he brings you unrelenting to a newly discovered plane. The last memory of worry slipping from you, unheeded. 

You are in a beautiful room. 

Everything is only flickering candlelight and perfume and a gorgeous man, around you, inside you, making you feel a pleasure that approaches epiphany. Your world reduced to nothing but this; a single moment, physical touch and burgeoning satisfaction. A pressure that's building in you, releasing in screams, cries, feeble payment for his generous talents.

"Tell me your name," he whispers, punctuated with a lick that curls towards your throat. His hand is working frantic between your legs. 

You pant, garbled sobs falling from your lips, unable to manage even a half-formed suggestion of coherency.

Not that it matters.

You find you can’t remember what it is.

* * *

_Oh, that's nice._ You burrow deeper, surrounded on all sides by plush and silk. A warm cocoon in the relative coolness of the air. 

Wait. Where _are_ you?

You still, eyes blinking wide. You're met with the velvet draw of curtains, hung on the rich mahogany of a canopy bed. Snug beneath a subdued rose duvet, silk and refreshing. This isn't the Arrow's Peak Inn. 

You struggle into sitting. _God_ you're sore. The blanket falls off your chest, exposing your skin to the chill morning. Oh great. You're naked, too. 

You consider dragging around the duvet, but. You're the only one in the room. You stretch, arms overhead, try to shake the stiffness from your limbs. 

Wherever you are is absurdly well furnished. You hop off the bed, feet landing on an intricate rug, floral in design. Pad over the softness of it towards the far wardrobe.

Wide windows are set into the adjoining wall, letting in swathes of warm sunlight. You can see the woods from last night, stretching out into the distance. Nothing else around in any direction. That's what you get for taking a rural shortcut, you guess. You won't be doing _that_ again. 

You turn, taking in the elaborate room. The bed, the delicate wainscoting, the tall overhead ceilings. Feel the satisfying ache of a night spent in debauchery.

Well. You won't do it _often_.

You reach out, swing the wardrobe open with one hand. Asmodeus had promised your clothes would be ready, so they must be in here. True to his word, they're hanging on fancy padded hangers, smelling like fresh cedar and linen. Even your phone is sitting at the bottom, perfectly centre and impossible to miss. Excellent.

Light flares beside you, distracting. There's a mirror hanging on the door, reflecting the incoming sun. You pause, one hand still extended towards your hanging clothes. 

Your skin is unblemished. 

It's not just the hickies that you're _sure_ were sucked against your neck last night. That burn that was developing nicely along your shoulders is gone. The little nick on your shin, from a bicycle accident when you were maybe twelve. The surgical scar on your hip, when you had that emergency medical procedure. Even the raised mark of an old inoculation has settled back to smoothness.

You turn, do a full spin in front of your reflection. There's nothing, not a single reminder of any mishap, any unfortunate decision. What the _hell_ is going on?

That's not right.

There's something there. Twin pinpricks, on both sides of your neck. Small, perfect little circles. Like the mark of a thick, double-pronged needle. 

Or a pair of fangs.

Everything is thrown on with such haste, you're probably pressing wrinkles into your immaculately cleaned clothes. You burst through the door, skid down the hallway, trying to figure out where on earth your gracious host is when . . . You throw yourself to a stop, a balustrade catching you around your waist and knocking out your air. 

This can't . . . You don't. . . 

The floor beneath your shoes is _cracked._ Long veins running down the length of the hall, large pieces of stone chipped. The running carpet you were stepping along the night before nowhere to be seen. Instead leaves are gathered in piles every few steps, dancing under a weak breeze. 

You turn right back around. Hug your arms around your chest, suddenly cold as you make your way back to the bedroom. All the walls are bare.

It takes three passes up and down the spot before you've realized you've passed it. Place your hand on the cool stone where you're sure there was a door. 

This is crazy. Are you going _crazy?_

You wander back towards the entryway, not sure what else to do. Maybe Asmodeus will be somewhere on the first floor, in the kitchens. Near the generator and all the modern amenities. That _must_ be it, he probably wanted to get a coffee or something before—

Blue, wide morning sky greets you, clouds drifting lazily overhead. The entryway doesn't have a ceiling.

But that doesn't. . . That's impossible. You recall the tiny circle of light your candle had provided, the way you'd kept your gaze focused on his back, the way the dark had pressed in on you from all sides. 

You would have seen the stars, at least, you're sure of it. 

You hop carefully down the stairs, avoiding the large, crumbling gaps, the areas where the stone is distressingly warped. Wander through the downstairs hallways, poking your head into any accessible rooms. Everything is empty, most areas open to the elements. The only other inhabitants are a family of squirrels, found nesting in the corner, a small shelter created by missing stone.

"Asmodeus!" 

A loud, intrusive _Honk!_ startles you out of your search. That's. That's a car! Oh thank _god_ a car! This must be the ride Asmodeus was talking about last night. You'll be able to get back into town with him, and he can explain _exactly_ what the _Fuck_ —

The vehicle that greets you at the entrance is a taxi. A tired looking older gentleman sits in the front, cap pulled down low over his eyes. 

The backseat is empty.

"Where to?"

You blink, a little stupidly. "What?"

"Where to?" The cab driver doesn't look over at you as he asks, hands still firm on the wheel.

You fidget. Look from him back to the castle. Stop. 

It's the first time you've seen it in the light of day. It's crumbling, portions of stone littered over the grounds. A whole tower along the side has been gutted open, the stairs inside exposed like the bones of a skeleton. And now you can finally see the shape of the rusted knockers on the door, the strange figure of the fountain. 

Grotesque, horned gargoyle-esque faces stare down at you, intense. Judging. Flanked on every side by large, life-like bat's wings. 

You take a step back, turn and are confronted with the edge of the fountain. The nearest sculpted piece has _very_ familiar eyes; red, blood-dark and threaded through with gold. 

Inset stone polished to a shine that almost looks wet. 

"Town," you gasp, stepping closer to the car. 

"Where?"

"Just the nearest town." Your fingers fumble on the handle, snapping fruitlessly twice before you finally manage to pry the door open. "Take me to the nearest town. I need to call a tow truck."

"Whatever you like." 

The engine rumbles to life the second the door shuts behind you, the taxi careening in a smooth circle around the drive, back onto the unfinished path down to the road. He didn't even wait for you to buckle in.

You turn in place, the leather of the seats squeaking underneath you, but the structure is immediately swallowed by the tight press of the trees.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [country roads take me home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298223) by [allechant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allechant/pseuds/allechant)




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